Tiny tripe

Well hello there.  It's been a while, hasn't it?  I was working on the assumption that everyone would be away on holiday and therefore not notice that I had been slack and idle for the best part of a fortnight.

To be honest, that's not true.  I haven't been slack, and certainly no more idle than usual.  In fact, I have been out and about, gallivanting across the countryside like a frisky gazelle, scampering hither and thither.

Yeah, I have.

Where have I been? Well I'll tell you.

Mr WithaY and I went up to Derbyshire for a weekend.  The Chatsworth Show was on, and we fancied having a look at it.  We drove up to a pleasant B&B on Friday evening, and were advised to try a local pub for dinner. 

If you are ever in the area, go and eat there.  Really.  The food was excellent, the staff were competent and friendly and the prices were not too steep.  In fact, here's their website - The Black Swan.    It was so nice that we went back again the next night and tried their "sharing dish" of rib eye steak and big chips.  Mr WithaY and I enjoy our food* but we still ended up with a small tinfoil package of steak to take home at the end of the meal. 

The B&B was good too.  Note for American readers - a B&B is a Bed and Breakfast establishment, where you stay overnight and they feed you breakfast - usually a huge and sausage-filled extravaganza - but you don't get an evening meal.  B&Bs are less expensive than a hotel, and often more interesting.  Sometimes, though, they are shite. 

This one was lovely, though, and on a farm, our room looked out across one of their trout lakes.  People were fishing, and Mr WithaY sat with his nose pressed forlornly against the window, watching them till we went out. 

There was a degree of grumbling along the lines of  "I knew I should have packed my travel fishing rod," but it soon passed.

The Chatsworth Show was excellent fun.  We missed the Red Arrows, who flew on the Friday for the first time since the crash that killed one of their pilots, but we did see a splendid display of stomach-churning aeronautics by two small stunt planes as we were leaving on Saturday afternoon.

Chatsworth House itself was under wraps, unfortunately, possibly to deter visitors to the show from gawping in through their windows and watching the Duchess sitting there in her curlers eating cheesy Wotsits and watching Jeremy Kyle.

I took a couple of pictures of their impressive wall carvings though:

There were hundreds of different stands and displays there, ranging from the traditional country pursuits of ferret-racing (no photos, I was laughing too much to think of using my camera) and stick-whittling to formal mounted displays of the Household Cavalry, with a fairground and lots of small trade stands in between.  There were people doing clever fishing demonstrations, shooting stands where you could Have A Go, and more delicious food vendors than you could shake a stick at.

As is traditional, Mr WithaY and I Had A Go at as many of the shooting stands as possible.  It got competitive. 

I am officially Rubbish With An Air Rifle.  Mr WithaY was hoping to win an air rifle on the strength of that result, but as yet has not had a phone call telling him to go and collect his prize. 

However, the .22 rifle was more successful.  Mine:

Mr WithaY's:

And yes, that is the noticeboard I made. We have our targets displayed in the kitchen. 

We watched some lurcher racing.  It;s like greyhound racing but a bit less organised.  The dogs have to run at high speed through a field, after a fake rabbit on a bit of string that is being dragged along at even higher speed.  Blimey, they can move.

To such an extent that there are warning signs posted.  They'll BREAK YOUR BONES, so stand back.  I wonder how? Perhaps they use cudgels, although I'd have thought gripping a big twatting stick between small lurcher paws might be tricky. 

There were many different craft tents, some crammed to the gills with talented people, others less so, some just brilliantly demented.  We found these chaps in a far corner of the showground. 

They had a whole marquee full of teeny little model carts and things, all made to accurate scale.  My favourite was the butchers shop on wheels.  It had dolls-house size meat, including little teeny pigs trotters. 

You get a sense of the scale of it by comparing it to the proud creator sitting behind the table there.  He was delighted that I was taking pictures, even moving the butchers shop around this way and that so I could capture the interior properly.

Look at the tiny pigs feet!  And black puddings!  And tripe!  I was entranced.

I spotted this giant letter "R" made from trees on the opposite hillside.  No idea what it is, or why it's there.  Anyone who has any answers, please feel free to comment. 

Oh, this is me firing a 2-bore muzzle-loaded gun.  The recoil was hefty, hence the rather appalling firing stance I have there.  You could have a go with four different types of muzzle-loader, shooting at clay pigeons.  I am proud to announce that I managed to shatter a clay with a flintlock musket.  Yay me.

We also popped in to see my genius clock-making mate, and selected two of the types of wood he is going to use to make our clock.  That was interesting, and I am looking forward to hearing how it's progressing.

Where else have I been?  Oh yes.  Ragdale Hall.

I went on another - ANOTHER! - short break to the home of all that is relaxing and beautifying, along with both sisters, mother and auntie.  We had a blast, I have not laughed so much in a very long time.  I had a reflexology treatment, a full body massage, a facial and a pedicure, and loved every minute.  We all went swimming in the fabulous pools, sat in the various steam rooms and saunas, chilled out in the comfy chairs that are artfully scattered around the place, and talked and talked and TALKED.  So much to say to each other. 

Normally when we all get together there are hordes of children and husbands and partners milling around, getting in the way and preventing two-hour conversations about nothing. 

Middle Sis and Youngest Sis and I shared a triple room.  It was like the Three Bears house.  Three beds in a row in the room.  Three robes hanging in a row in the cupboard.  Three coffee mugs in a row by the kettle. Only one toilet in the bathroom, though.  I had half expected to see three of those in a row in there too.

Other news:  I have been harvesting crab apples from the tree in the garden, and making crab apple jelly. The first batch has turned out remarkably well.

I'd post a photo if Blogger would let me.  Maybe later.








*are fat greedy bastards.

Pigs etcetera

I think I might go back to work for a rest.

I know that's a cliche, but hey, I've been too busy to come up with anything original.

Last week was a whirl - yes a whirl - of gaiety. 

Tuesday was Mottisfont Day.  It's a big annual day out for me and my lovely Mum.  We go to look at the garden there, which includes the National Rose Collection, and is just beautiful. 

The house is rather splendid too.  Look:

I am pleased with the brooding sky in this photo.  The whole day was like this, sunny and warm, with "end of the world" weather potential. 

The gardens are just fab.  Go.  Even if you live in Texas or something, it'd be worth the trip, honest.  And there's a tea shop and everything, so you know, not a wasted journey.

They've put a fence round the spring now, so you can't fall in unless you try really hard. 

Unfortunately I am an idiot, and failed to check the battery in my camera, so these last few pictures were taken on my phone.  Sorry.

More impressively dark skies on that one. 

Mum and I took shelter in that little tiled hut thingy in the corner, waiting for the downpour. It never came.  But if it had, we'd have been dry.  Take that, weather.

Anyhoo, look.  Pretty.

Later that same week, Middle Sis and family came to visit for a few days.  We had a barbecue, and ended up sitting out in the garden with the fire lit till really quite late*.  Party animals that we are.

Being the evil thief that I am, I have nicked one of her photos for my blog.  Mwahahahahaaaaaaa.

Those are my new solar-powered garden lanterns.  Marvellous.

The highlight of the week, though, was the Bath and West Show.  It's not as brilliant as the Frome Cheese Show. To be fair, how could it be?  It doesn't have the same depth of character, the same terse notes left by the judges, and the same dazzling arrays of prize silage and unfeasible leeks, but it does have pigs.  Lots and lots of pigs.

Big ones.

Small ones.

Sleepy ones with a bucket on their head.

And my personal favourite, hugely tolerant ones which were being used to demonstrate "pig handling" by very young children. I did take some pictures, but won't post them on here, what with them being of other peoples' children and all. 

Believe me, a four-year-old in a teeny white coat, whacking a huge pig with a stick to make it walk in a straight line is a sight you don't easily forget. 

Other attractions included competitive sheep shearers.  Middle Sis and I watched them for a fair while, impressed by their skill and dexterity.  Nothing to do with the muscles and vests.  No no no. 

The sheep all looked faintly bored, the ones backstage jostling and peeking over the barricade, watching their mates being shorn.  Little did they know it was their turn next.

"Haha, your new haircut makes you look like a dick, Kevin..."

The Army were there, doing lots of fun stuff, including challenging people to run about in the hot sun carrying heavy weights.  There was a queue for this.  Really.

There was a giant mounted knight made from recycled rubbish.  I liked him a lot.

And there was this.  We wantssssss it, my precious.

It's got a matching bag to put your shotgun in!  How great is that?  Perfect for nipping to the shops.  The GUN shops. 

Saturday night we went to a party for a neighbour's birthday, which was pleasant - marquees and tables in their riverside garden, with food and music and wine and chatting.  Most convivial.   I have garden envy now, though.  I want river frontage and fishing rights.

Sunday I was woken up by the most godawful thunder and heavy rain I can remember, which enlivened the morning.  Torrential rain all day, making up for all these past weeks of dry.  Dryth?  Drought?  No rain, anyway. 

Today has been lovely, not least because I didn't get up at 5:50 and then struggle in from work, knackered,  at 8pm.  I could get used to this. 




*After 10pm.  We're getting old.

Run to the Hills

Well, didn't go and play Airsoft in the end. I will next time though.

Mr WithaY assures me it was great fun, and tremendous glory was had by all. All those on the "Aggressive Yellow" team, mind, not the wimpy Red Team, who apparently were a bunch of big girls and failed to achieve their objectives in anything like as cool a way as the Yellows.

He came home covered in mud, completely exhausted, saying "Oh my God. I am OLD". Serves him right for going out to play with a bunch of twenty-somethings.

Apparently they sell all kinds of pyrotechnics there. Mr WithaY had to buy some. See my earlier remarks on his Compulsory Firework Purchasing Disorder. Still looking for a self help group on that, by the way.

He was full of tales of derring-do, all of which which seemed to involve lobbing grenades at the enemy, which then bounced off tree branches and landed among his own team, exploding and causing mayhem. Heh.

Reminds me of our days fighting in the musket block, blowing stuff up. Ah, the romance.

Other news. Getting a bit tired of moussaka now. Still loads left. It was lovely, mind.

I looked at the recipe and thought "Hmm, that's not much for four hungry (alright, greedy) people," and I doubled up the quantities. I think I realised it was a mistake when the damn thing wouldn't all fit in my huge casserole dish and I ended up making two lots.

Still, meant I could sit on the sofa last night eating tasty leftovers and watching Shrek 2 on DVD. Marvellous. I love being a grown-up.

Long and mousey

This post. Not my hair. I mean, it's long, but not at all mousey.

Anyhoo.

Drove into work this morning on autopilot after a day at home yesterday feeling crap and another poor night's sleep. It's very very tiresome*, not sleeping properly. Makes everything else feel ten times more difficult and wearing than it really is, and every molehill turns into a huge mountain.

Still, the sun is out and I am wearing a very lovely pink sparkly scarf over my otherwise all-black work outfit and three different people have told me how (and I quote) glamorous I look. So hurrah for that, at least.

Off to the gym after work if I can summon up the enthusiasm, but to be honest I still feel pretty low so might leave it till tomorrow. I have a guitar lesson, so it will be a bit of a mad rush to do my stuff at the gym, get home, get showered and changed and be bright-eyed and all ready to play guitar and eat biscuits with my lovely teacher by 6pm. And we got cow biscuits in specially.

So it might be a session tomorrow and one on Thursday as planned instead.

Badgerdaddy's post about the mouse made me think about our own vermin slaying experiences. And we have lots. Our previous house in Salisbury had a bit of a mouse invasion one winter.

We didn't realise it for ages.

I was home alone for a week while Mr WithaY was away for work, and I was sitting on the floor in the sitting room, no music, no tv, all very quiet, reading an improving book**. After a while I realised I could hear odd scratching, tapping noises. I looked out of the windows, nobody about. Went into the kitchen, nothing going on in there. Sat and listened again, but the noise had stopped.

This happened several times over the next few nights. I'd be sat quietly, and would hear this odd noise, get up to go and try to find out what it was, and it would stop.

Many months later we were redecorating the sitting room. We moved a small shelf unit that the stereo*** lived on, and hey presto, behind it was a Tom and Jerry stylee mousehole. Some fucking mouse had been busily making his way into the fabric of the house! He'd eaten the wallpaper, channelled his way into the bricks and gnawed all the rubber insulation from the mains electric cables for good measure.

What I'd been hearing night after night was him doing his little mousey home improvements. Lucky he didn't eat right into the power cables and burn the bloody house down.

After that we kept an eye out for further evidence, and sure enough we started to find mouse poo in the kitchen. In the fruit and vegetable basket, to be exact. We binned all the fruit and veg, noting that the only thing the mouse had had a go at were the chillies. Not the apples, or potatoes, or carrots or even the onions. Just the chillies. Odd, eh?

We set a trap. The next day there he was, dead as the proverbial, his teeth buried in a fine lump of stilton (as a last meal, Mr WithaY thought it was appropriate that it be something a bit special).

I must admit I had a bit of a lump in my throat as we slung him in the bin. The mouse. Not Mr WithaY.

The intermittent rats in the current WithaY garden get no such sentimental treatment. We spot one stealing the birdfood, the sniper on the grassy knoll is deployed, we very soon afterwards dump the twitching carcase in the bin (the grey one, not the green one).

Mr WithaY sometimes makes me take photos of the really big ones. It's nice to share things, I think.




*heh, see what I did there?

**improving book: i.e: not porn

***are they still called stereos these days? Will the younger readers know what I mean?